Should Be Crying
by DictionGoddess
Summary: AU future. Elizabeth copes with a loss.


Standard disclaimer applies.

This is what happens when you listen to ÔThis Woman's Work' by Kate Bush 60 times. It is disjointed and abstract, but complete. The song is highly recommended. This is not beta-read, so all errors are mine. Apologies in advance.

Should Be Crying (1/1)

She thinks the regret will eventually consume her, but she does not attend the services after the funeral. Instead she drops her daughter off at her ex-husband's house and goes to her apartment. She tosses her coat on the floor and unbuckles her black stiletto heels. Then she meticulously cuts out the obituary and places it an old Nike shoebox underneath her bed. She does not cry.

The next day, as the rain ceaselessly pounds against the window, she knocks over the coffee mug. The red ceramic chunks crash against the shiny white tile of her kitchen floor. She screams out his name, and when she realizes what she has done she runs from the room. Thirty minutes and a half bottle of wine later, she returns to pick up the remains. They are placed in a bag, in the shoebox. 

Eight hours later she calls his cell phone so she can hear his voice ask her to leave a message. She does not speak, and her hands shake as she presses the off button on her black cordless phone. 

In the morning she sips steaming hot chocolate from a plastic travel cup. It takes twenty minutes to find her keys, and she lets the thick metal door slam behind her in haste. She does not look at the motorcycle parked beside her blue Civic. She pulls out and takes a left onto the main road.

She arrives exactly on time, but he is not ready for her. She sits with her daughter on the plush designer couch as he places items in a quilted bag while ranting about a difficult case. She ignores him, choosing to listen to her daughter's attempt at reading a book. The light from the window shines off her daughter's chestnut curls and brings out the green in her hazel eyes. He stops in front of her, demanding her attention. She does not look him in the eye.

"Why does she have that book?

"I'm allowed to buy my daughter things.

"You think I'm clueless?

"I think you're cruel.

"I'm glad he's dead. I'm glad he can't touch myÉ" She cannot listen to him berate the man she loves, so she slaps him as hard as she can. A red welt begins to rise on his face immediately, and her eyes finally meet his. 

"You have no right to say anything. And if you keep it up, you'll never see her again.

He begins to spew legalese at her, but she cannot hear a word he says. She grabs the bag from his hands, and gently grasps her daughter's tiny, chubby hand before walking out the door. 

She sets her daughter down for a nap before she begins to pack. It takes an hour to fill three large navy blue suitcases with everything they need until they arrive. She calls for the tickets, instructing that they be left under the windshield wipers on her car in half an hour. She declines the invitation for company, but wishes the family well. She does not expect to see them again.

An hour later they are at the airport. They sit first class, and she spends the flight with her daughter on her lap. She places the book on the seat beside her, and points to all the places they are going to see when they get there. Her daughter giggles and waves her arms in excitement. She kisses the top of her head as she holds her tightly. 

They reach the villa twelve hours later. Her daughter falls asleep the moment her head hits the pillow, and she is thankful for that. She pours a glass of vintage red wine and stands on the deck that overlooks the city. It is exactly like the cover of the book. 

"I miss you," she says out loud. "I miss you so much it hurts. He does not answer like she hoped. She realizes then that it is not a joke like she had hoped. It was all very fast, it was all too real.

_"I need your help," he said one day as he saw her walking through the park with the stroller. She hadn't seen him for a year, since before her daughter was born. She agreed because she owed him. Nine months later her divorce was finalized._

_"I love you," he said one day as he picked her up at the studio. She held back the tears in her eyes and repeated his words. He kissed her so gently that she thought that she could fly._

_"I'm dying," he said one day as he held her daughter on his lap. She fell to her knees beside him and sobbed in spite of herself as he read aloud from the travel book to keep her daughter calm._

_"I'll see you later," he said one day before he closed his eyes. She held onto his hand though his grip had gone slack and stroked his hair. She waited until they covered him with the white sheet before she began to make the final arrangements he asked for._

She finishes the wine, and leaves the glass on the wooden railing. She goes inside to her room, and unpacks the Nike shoebox. The obituary comes out first. She reads it again, though she knows every word by heart: 

**_Jason (Quartermaine) Morgan_**_, peacefully on October 22. Successful coffee-importer, philanthropist who made generous donations to the AIDS wing at General Hospital. Loving companion of Elizabeth Lansing, beloved guardian of Adela Lansing. Faithful friend to Michael and Carly Corinthos, godfather to Michael and Morgan Corinthos. Beloved grandson of Lila and Edward Quartermaine, treasured son of Alan and Monica Quartermaine, valued brother of A.J. and Emily Quartermaine. Send donations to Stone Cates Memorial AIDS Foundation in lieu of flowers. _

She then fingers the broken ceramic mug with the Corinthos/Morgan logo, which he used every morning for his coffee.

His motorcycle keys, on a simple silver ring. If she holds them long enough with her eyes shut tight, she can almost see the wind.

A can of cream of broccoli soup he presented her with on a December morning to mark a silly anniversary. She promised that she wouldn't cook it.

His wallet, full of pictures of Adela and one of her at her easel. She was biting her lip and wearing an old white dress shirt of his as a smock. He took it before she could complain and kept it there so she couldn't find it. 

A shard of red glass from a Valentine's Day long ago.

A picture of ÔThe Wind'. She'd buried the real thing with him, once she realized he could no longer come home to it. 

She packs everything back carefully before resealing the box and placing it under her new bed. She sits on the edge of the bed to remove her shoes and jeans, then crawls underneath the thick down comforter and cool black satin sheets. 

"I'll see you later," she whispers, and this time she is prepared for the silence that answers. She does not cry.


End file.
